Summer, 2021

The smoky ghost of summer present settles in,
looking like it wants to linger.
Unbidden, unwanted,
stealer of things we longed for during the bleak mid-winter of 2020.

Gray dawn,
apocalyptic sunset
pretty in one sense,
tragic in another.

Ash on the green beans
and unused patio chairs
and geraniums that I water every day
and enjoy through a window.

Sore throats.
Burning eyes.

Consuming fire.
Lost homes, lost dreams,
lost towns.
Rage, in the name of
lost children, lost dignity,
lost lives.

We either know it all or nothing
depending on which side of the fence we stand
and who we stand with.

Evacuation alerts and orders.
“Go bags” packed and plans in place.
The cacophony of late-night banging on doors
and ringing doorbells.
Gas tanks full.
Eyes scanning the horizon (when the horizon can be seen).

We pray for rain, but no lightening
wind, but not too much.
Firefighters. First responders. Helicopter pilots. Evacuees.
Our mental health.

We smell it in our cars and in our homes.
It clings to our clothes like a codependent phantom.

Housebound again. Held hostage by a haint.


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.

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